STAFFORDSHIRE.
HEERE lyes closyd in cley
The body of RICHARD WROTTYSLEY.
And also DOROTHY his wife,
Which lived together all their lyfe.
The year 1517 of our Lord
DOROTHY departed of this world;
And after, within short space,
RICHARD was lay'd in his place.
Here now our bodyes do lie;
On our souls Jhu have mercy.
We desire now every christen man
pray
for our soules that be gon.
ST. MARGARET'S CHAPEL, NEAR HODDESDON.
Who died August 17, 1702, aged 52 Years.
HERE in one grave more than one Grave lies;
Envious Death at last hath gain'd his prize;
No pills or potions here could make Death tarry,
Resolv'd he was to fetch away old Harry ;
Ye foolish doctors! could you all miscarry.
Great were his actions on the boist'rous waves:
Resistless seas could never conquer Graves.
Ah! Colchester, lament his overthrow!
Unhappily you lost him at a blow.
Each marine hero for him shed a tear,
St. Margarets, too, in this must have a share.
ON COWLEY, THE POET.
Written in Latin by himself, and translated by Addison.
FROM life's superfluous cares enlarg'd,
His debt of human toil discharg'd,
Here COWLEY lies! beneath this shed,
To ev'ry worldly int'rest dead;
With decent poverty content,
His hours of ease not idly spent ;
To fortune's goods a foe profest,
And hating wealth, by all carest.
'Tis true he's dead; for oh! how small
A spot of earth is now his all:
Oh! wish that earth may lightly lay,
And every care be far away;
Bring flowers; the short-liv'd roses bring,
To life deceas'd, fit offering:
And sweets around the poet strow,
While yet with life his ashes glow.
IN ALL-HALLOWS, STAINING, LONDON.
OUR Holt (alas!) hath stint his hold,
By Death call'd hence in haste,
Whose christian name being Christopher,
With Christ is better plac'd.
In Sawton born of gentle race,
In London spent his days,
A clerke that was in Custom House,
In credit many wayes.
So that altho' we feel the losse
Of this so dear a friend,
His life well spent while he was here,
Hath gain'd a better end.
Who died of an Epidemic Fever, at New York, which he caught from his Attendance on the Sick, at Philadelphia.
CLOS'D are those eyes, alas! for ever clos'd,
Which beam'd so sweetly with expression mild, With soft intelligence, and look compos'd,
Spoke the calm soul, untorn by passions wild.
Hush'd is the music of that voice, whose sound,
To converse eloquent gave added charms,
In icy fetters now for ever bound,
Harmonious accents! Death thy power disarms,
Oh! my lost friend, for thee my tears will flow!
Yet why lament? How nobly thou didst fall!
"Died he in battle?" cries the soldier. No;
No warrior proud! Benevolence was all
His glory, and he sought not to destroy
His suff'ring fellow creatures, but to save: The rage of pestilence he strove t' alloy,
And snatch the panting victim from the grave. He whisper'd comfort to the sinking soul,
Whose last faint accents bless his gen'rous aid. Contagious sighs, around his heart they stole ; Quick through his frame their deadly influence spread,
And sudden hurl'd him (oh! untimely doom)
In pride of youth and virtue, to the tomb.
DEATH, without warning, was as bold as briefe,
When he killed two in one, a miller and a thiefe.
ON A YOUNG LADY..
THIS mournful hearse approach each weeping fair,
Your once-lov'd, dear LOUISA claims the tear.
In her shone beauty, youth, and wit combin'd,
A form angelic, with an angel-mind:
Ah! what avail'd youth, beauty, wit combin'd,
Her form angelic, and her angel-mind?
See the poor relics of this goodly store,
And youth, and wit, and beauty boast no more.
THOMAS ANDERSON,
OF GALES, NEAR RICHMOND, IN YORKSHIRE.
Departed this Life December 11th, 1752, aged 31.
STOP, Traveller !
I'VE pass'd-repass'd
The seas, and distant lands,
Can find no rest
But in my Saviour's hands.
The unfortunate person whose memory is here perpetuated, was shot for deserting from Sir John Ligonier's regiment of dragoons, at Shrewsbury. The above lines were inscribed on his tomb stone at his own particular desire.
OLNEY CHURCH-YARD, BUCKS.
CONFIDE not, reader, in thy youth and strength,
But more than both the present moment prize,
Graves here surround thee, of each breadth and length,
And thou may'st be (perhaps) the next that dies.
ST. GILES'S CHURCH, SALOP,
Quartermaster of Horse in the reign of King William the Third.
IN Irish wars I fought for England's glory;
Let no man scoff at telling of this story:
I saw great SCHOMBERG fall, likewise the brave ST.
RUTH,
And here I come to die, not there in my youth. Through dangers great I have past many a storm: Die we must all, as sure as we are born.
READER! let other tomb-stones o'er this plain,
To please thy taste, poetic lines impart;
This humble monument shall seek to gain,
Shall hope to meliorate thy feeling heart.
Would'st thou enjoy eternity? Be wise;
Endure, with steady faith, the ills of fate,
Thus at the close of life, thy soul shall rise
To endless pleasures in a future state.
Hope not that rash and never-ceasing tears,
For expectation cross'd, thy God shall move;
But know, for patient christians he prepares
A crown of glory in the realms above.
Whilst all beneath this solemn yew-tree shade
Enforce the sentence "Life must shortly end!"
Oh! strive to gain the life that never fades,
And heed the whispers of thy clay-cold friend!
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